The Artful Match

by Jennifer Delamere

  “Well, well,” he murmured finally. He rose from his chair and walked toward them. He was very tall. “What did you say your name was?”

  “She didn’t,” Georgiana said dryly. “I think you frightened her, looking at her like a bear anticipating his next meal.”

  Adrian laughed. It was a deep, sonorous sound. Just the sort one expected from a man his size. “I don’t bite,” he promised Cara. “Not really.”

  “I’m Cara Bernay. I’m so pleased to meet you. Is this your house? This is the most wonderful studio I’ve ever seen.”

  She spoke rapidly from nervousness, but he returned her rambling compliments with a pleased smile.

  Langham rejoined them. “Adrian, this is Cara. She’s a—”

  “—model. I can see that,” Adrian interrupted.

  “I was going to say painter. But there’s no reason she can’t be both.”

  “I’ve been commissioned to do a mural for the interior of a new theatre,” Adrian said, his gaze still on Cara. “I had in mind a painting of the Three Graces. I have models for Beauty and Grace. I only need Charm.”

  “He is always lacking charm, isn’t he, Georgiana?” Langham put in.

  Georgiana rolled her eyes but nodded at Langham’s playful dig.

  “How do you know I am charming?” Cara asked, genuinely perplexed. “You’ve only just met me.”

  “Ha! The artless way you asked that question tells me exactly what I need to know.”

  “Aren’t the Three Graces usually painted in the nude?” Georgiana asked.

  “Nude!” Cara squeaked in alarm. For the first time, she felt uneasy. Had she made a mistake coming here after all?

  Her discomfort made Adrian chuckle. “Don’t worry, my dear. This particular theatre aims to bring in respectable, middle-class patrons, and we can’t risk offending them. I was thinking more along the lines of Greek robes. Enough to preserve modesty while accentuating each woman’s face and figure.” He took a step back, looking Cara over and considering. “Blue, I think, would be your color. Light blue with golden threads.”

  “You’re right, she’d be perfect,” Langham agreed. “You’re using Augusta and Jane for the other two, aren’t you? Cara will be a perfect complement to them. The round face, the pert chin, the golden hair. Not to mention those big blue eyes. She’s a stunner of a different sort altogether. Not so languid and pale, or giving the impression of being two steps away from death.”

  “Oh, I should hope not!” Cara exclaimed. She felt decidedly uncomfortable again as the two men studied her. They might be looking at her with professional painter’s eyes, but it was disconcerting nonetheless.

  Georgiana took the paintbrush from Adrian’s hand. “The tea is getting cold. Why don’t we take a break?”

  “I’ll pay you for the modeling, of course,” Adrian told Cara.

  “Up front?” Langham asked.

  “Are you her booking agent, then?” Georgiana teased.

  “Don’t give him any commission, Cara,” Adrian warned. “He’ll only drink it.” As if to prove this, he picked up the bottle of gin and tipped a bit more into his and Langham’s glasses.

  At some point after the tea and sandwiches had been consumed, Langham had said something about the “sun being over the yardarm,” and a bottle of gin had been brought out. This had made Cara nervous at first. She did not dare do more than wet her lips with the stuff, for throughout her life she’d heard admonitions about what terrible things happened to women who succumbed to drink.

  Soon, however, she began to feel more at ease. Everyone was kind, and Georgiana’s presence made her feel safe. Georgiana was down-to-earth with a wry sense of humor. She and Adrian had met a few years ago when one of his cousins had married one of hers. They had immediately bonded over their mutual passion for art and had been sharing this home for two years. Although not physically related, their status as cousins by marriage made their living arrangement marginally respectable. When Langham had come to London, looking for a place to live, they had invited him to join them.

  When asked about her background, Cara shared some details about growing up in the orphanage in Bristol. She told them how she’d later worked as a scullery maid and then a parlor maid. She didn’t mention the Needenhams or her work there. It wasn’t lying, exactly, if one simply skipped over information, right?

  As the day wore on, Cara knew she ought to go. But she had no desire to leave. This was the most fun she’d had in ages. She enjoyed the banter among these three. Such informal interaction between men and women was something she had never experienced.

  “I asked about the payment for modeling because Cara is new to London and hasn’t much money,” Langham explained. “I want to help her out.”

  “And what big plans do you have for yourself in London?” Adrian asked her.

  “I plan to become a painter.” It was exciting to say it aloud. This was her new life. There would be no more living on her sisters’ terms. “I know I might have to find other work as well, just to get on my feet.”

  “What makes you think you can find success as a painter?” Georgiana asked. She did not pose the question in a negative way but seemed sincerely interested.

  “I read an article in Victoria Magazine describing how much more opportunity there is today for artists than in years past. Many people are commissioning paintings for their homes and for public buildings, and paying well for them. Some artists are becoming quite wealthy!” Even though Cara had been impressed with the article, she hadn’t thought it could ever apply to her. Not until today.

  “Some artists are living well off their earnings,” Langham agreed. “Leighton, Watts, Burne-Jones. The rest of us are still working on it.”

  “But you are going to show your work at the Grosvenor!” Cara said. “Your paintings will be alongside those of famous artists.”

  Langham tipped his head. “I hope they don’t put me to complete shame.”

  “Don’t let Langham fool you with his false modesty,” Adrian said. “He plans to be more famous than any of them.”

  Langham simply shrugged and grinned. “Georgiana, I believe she has a real talent for portraiture. Perhaps you can connect her with potential clients.”

  “It’s possible,” Georgiana replied. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She hasn’t had training and is new to London. She will need a studio and supplies.”

  “Oh,” said Cara, crestfallen. “I hadn’t thought about that.” Of course she hadn’t. She’d had this mad idea in her mind for all of six hours.

  “I don’t wish to discourage you,” Georgiana said. “Only to help you plan. Adrian will pay you for modeling. That’s a start. Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know,” Cara said, feeling foolish. “That is, I will probably stay with my brother-in-law’s family.”

  Langham said, “I vote that she stays here with us.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Cara protested.

  And yet the moment Langham said it aloud, Cara realized this was what she’d secretly been wishing for. It would be thrilling to live here, to have a chance to explore being a model and an artist. From what Cara had gleaned so far, Georgiana and Adrian made a reasonable living selling their art. Adrian had sold his more “lofty-themed” artwork, as Georgiana put it, to wealthy clients who needed to fill the walls of their grand homes.

  Adrian’s bushy eyebrows pulled together, and he and Georgiana traded glances. Neither one spoke, and Cara was suddenly embarrassed that Langham had put them on the spot like this. Why should they take in a virtual stranger? It was too much to ask. She set down her napkin, preparing to rise from the table. It was time to go.

  Then, to her surprise, she saw Adrian and Georgiana give a tiny nod to each other, almost in unison.

  “I suppose Cara might stay for a few days,” Georgiana said. “Just to see how things work out.”

  “It would certainly make things easier for the modeling,” Adrian agreed. “I can begin preliminary sketches
tomorrow. The painting must be done before the theatre opens next month.”

  Relieved and happy, Cara grinned. Langham finished off the gin in his glass and sat back, crossing his arms and beaming.

  “Is this what you meant about having an idea up your sleeve?” Cara asked him. “You thought I might stay here?”

  “I saw it as a possibility. Now that I’ve heard your story, I’m sure I was right.”

  “It will be nice to have another woman around,” Georgiana said. “However, sometimes you might need to remind these two that you are neither the cook nor the maid.”

  “It’s a good thing, too,” Cara said. “I’m terrible at both those things.”

  Georgiana smiled. “I think you are going to get along here just fine.”

  “Excellent,” Langham said, slapping the table to indicate a done deal. He got up and began to rummage through a box of supplies at the far end of the studio.

  “What are you looking for?” Adrian asked.

  “I’m sure I packed somewhere in here what we need . . . yes, here it is.” He pulled a bottle from one of the crates. “A bit of brandy to toast the new tenant.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  HENRY LOOKED OUT at the rain, which was coming down in buckets.

  Very large buckets.

  “The rain will end in a day or so, my lord,” said Mr. Thompson cheerfully. “I’m sure of it.”

  Henry and Mr. Thompson, the man hired to oversee the rebuilding project, were standing at the open door of the smaller house on the Morestowe estate. Although it was known as the dower cottage, his widowed mother would never consider inhabiting it. The place had been neglected for years and was nowhere near the grandeur of the family mansion. It would take a good deal of work to bring the kitchen and living areas up to modern standards. That was a project for another day, however. The mansion had to be finished first. Looking out at the pouring rain, Henry began to doubt whether that would ever happen.

  Although Mr. Thompson had a near-legendary ability to foretell weather changes, Henry had a difficult time believing his prediction. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Barometric pressure is rising, temperature is dropping. There’s been a shift in the wind direction, too. Coming from the south now. Not to mention that I had a bit of forecast help from the Meteorological Office.”

  “So you use a smattering of science as well as tea leaves?” Henry said.

  Mr. Thompson acknowledged Henry’s attempt at humor with a smile. “I would say my strength is in bringing together many pieces of information.”

  From their vantage point, they could see the main house, which lay on the other side of the wide lawn. The roof of the entire east wing was still covered with large sheets of oilcloth to keep out the rain. Parts of the lawn were lost under pools of water, as was a good portion of the drive. It was going to be a challenge to get his carriage to the railway station. But Henry had to leave for London.

  “In the meantime, we’ve been able to carry on with the refurbishment of the west wing,” Mr. Thompson reminded him. “The plasterers are done, and the work on the baseboards is underway. Once that’s complete, we’ll start painting. You should be able to move in soon.”

  It was all good news, as far as it went. The family could live in the west wing, in the rooms normally used for guests, until the east wing was rebuilt.

  After they’d reviewed a few more details, Mr. Thompson donned his mackintosh and strode off toward the main house.

  Henry stood there awhile longer, looking at the soggy landscape. Even in this deluge, he could find some beauty in the scene. The wet summer had made everything green and lush. He’d always felt bound to this land, which had been in his family for generations. The hard circumstances he’d dealt with this year only made him love the place more. It was part of him, an extension of his soul. He wanted nothing more than to bring the estate back to its prime. There were more challenges to come, but somehow he would do it.

  He closed the door against the rain and went to the room that originally functioned as a parlor. Now it resembled a business office. A large work table had been brought in, and the various plans and paperwork relating to the reconstruction were spread over it.

  A smaller desk in the corner held Henry’s correspondence and other documents that had been brought from his study at the main house. He pulled a key ring from his pocket and opened one of the locked drawers. This was where his housekeeper, the only other person with a key, deposited any correspondence that arrived for him. Today there was a small stack of items. Settling in a dusty armchair by the empty fireplace, he began to sort through them.

  One item in particular stood out. It was from one of the best tailors in London. The one his brother used. Henry opened it and found a hefty bill for a new suit, completed just last week.

  He could have kicked himself for missing the obvious answer. Langham had not gone tearing off to some seaside resort; he had gone to London. Langham wouldn’t care that the city was melting in the heat or that the Season was over. Many homes in Holland Park, the artists’ enclave Langham favored, had spacious lawns with shade trees, open to cooling breezes. Plenty of residents stayed there year-round.

  Why had the bill come here, when Langham knew Henry was still in London? The answer was obvious. Langham had counted on Henry not seeing this for several weeks. He didn’t want to disclose his whereabouts, even if he could not resist a new set of clothes—which, Henry noted with irritation, was expensive. Try as he might, curbing Langham’s spendthrift ways had been a losing battle.

  Henry placed the bill in a satchel, along with other correspondence that he would address once he returned to London. Now he had a way to find Langham. When he returned to the city, that would be his first order of business.

  “Did I ever mention that I can do magic tricks?” Langham returned to their table and set down a glass of whiskey, covering it with his hat. “I can drink this, in one go, without touching the hat.”

  Georgiana groaned. “Even assuming you could, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  Langham waved away her remark like a pesky fly. “Then you should have asked to see this trick earlier.”

  Cara shared Georgiana’s concern. The few days she’d spent at the artists’ home had gone so well. The small bedroom they’d offered her was comfortable enough, and her days were full, as she’d begun to immerse herself in their world. The only thing that troubled her was Langham’s tendency to drink too much.

  They had been in this pub for hours. The evening had begun pleasantly, for the pub was frequented by many artists. Cara had enjoyed listening to their spirited debates about painting styles and techniques, and the gossip about whose work was at which gallery, and who had made recent sales. She and Georgiana were the only female artists there, although a few other women had accompanied some of the men.

  Cara had spent the evening taking small sips from a single pint of beer, but many of the others, including Langham, had been steadily finishing off glass after glass. Gradually, as more and more pints of beer were brought out and consumed, the place got noisier and the talk became more raucous.

  Langham’s slurred speech and unsteady gait had already begun to worry her, and now he was going to top off the beer with whiskey.

  Adrian rose from the table, reaching for Langham’s arm. “Don’t be idiotic. Let’s go home.”

  Langham shook off his friend’s grasp. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

  “Horatio?” Cara repeated, confused.

  “Langham always quotes Shakespeare when he’s drunk,” Georgiana told her.

  “This is the last drink,” Langham insisted, pointing their attention back to the hat covering his glass.

  “You said that three pints ago,” Adrian pointed out.

  “Four,” Georgiana corrected.

  “Cara wants to see the trick, don’t you?” Langham leaned toward her with a crooked grin.r />
  Cara looked between the three of them, not wanting to be the deciding factor in this situation.

  “See there, she does.” Langham dropped suddenly to his knees and slid under the table.

  “What are you doing?” Cara cried out in alarm.

  The only response was three loud bangs as Langham struck the table from below. This was followed by a long, rude slurping noise.

  “Come out from under there, Langham,” Adrian ordered. “Don’t be a buffoon.”

  Langham’s hands appeared first, taking hold of the table. He then hoisted himself to a standing position. Once he had gained his feet, albeit unsteadily, he wiped a hand across his mouth.

  “You can’t really have drunk it,” Cara said, giving the hat a doubtful look.

  He waggled his eyebrows. “There’s only one way to know for sure.”

  Cara couldn’t resist. She picked up the hat to look under it. The glass was just as full as it had been moments before. Before she could even turn to Langham, he snatched up the glass. Tossing his head back, he downed the liquor in one swallow.

  “Victory!” he proclaimed, slamming the glass on the table and dropping back into his seat. “You see, I drank the entire thing without touching the hat!” He began to laugh so forcefully that he held his stomach. “I . . . didn’t . . . touch . . . the hat!” he gasped between bouts of laughter. He picked up the glass and sent it flying over his shoulder. It struck the wall and shattered, causing nearby patrons to jump in alarm. Their reaction only caused Langham to laugh harder.

  “We’re going home now,” Adrian ordered. He grabbed Langham and pulled him to his feet. Georgiana got up, too, and Cara willingly followed.

  They hadn’t gone three steps before they were intercepted by the pub’s owner, a big, beefy man with a grizzled chin. “Yer not goin’ anywhere till you’ve settled the bill.”

  “Just put it on my account,” Langham said breezily. “And the glass, too,” he added, looking at the barmaid scooping up the shards from the floor. “You know I’m good for it.”